


Slow Disco

by flowerpower



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthday, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Pining, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reunions, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 23:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerpower/pseuds/flowerpower
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes loved to slow dance, and everyone in Brooklyn knew that.But how good could a slow dance be when you start to beat it to death?





	Slow Disco

**Author's Note:**

> hAHA hi I'm back! After two years of not finishing anything, here I am, still angsting over stevebucky (smh). Long story short, Infinity War killed me. I decided to write a one-shot instead of a multi-chaptered fic because we know how the last one went (I didn't update it for a year and completely abandoned the fic. sigh.) Anyways, have this post-bp reunion fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings for mild Black Panther spoilers, and foreshadowing of events that would happen in Infinity War.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **I do _NOT_ own any of the characters**. I'm here just to mend the pain caused by Infinity War. :')
> 
>  **ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE:**  
>  This story is set a few months after _Black Panther_ , considering that _Black Panther_ took place in late 2016, probably in October or November of that year (I might be wrong, but for the purpose of this story, let's think that way.) Bucky is thawed in December, and his 100th birthday, of course, is in March 2017.
> 
>  **ETA 6/21/2018** :  
> i was worried that this fic was explicit enough to be E-rated but i just bumped it down to M-rated because it's not as explicit as i thought it would be (there is a sex scene but it's not that graphic.) so, just a heads-up!

 

James Buchanan Barnes loved to slow dance, and everyone in Brooklyn knew that.

He liked to visit every dancehall there was and dance through the night with various strangers. But he liked it even better when the music started to slow down in tempo, switching the breathless laughters into quiet hush as everyone searched for a dance partner. Now, he couldn’t remember any of their faces, or recall the smell of their cheap perfumes, but he remembers the feeling. It was as if he was trying to get acquainted with someone, to learn the way they move without uttering a single word.

He also knew when the slow dance started to turn stale, when it no longer contained the spark both sides were looking for, _seeking_ for. He knew when to stop swaying and call it a night. After all, how good could a slow dance be when you start to beat it to death?

Well. There is one particular slow dance he hasn’t stopped swaying since before the war. It’s probably past stale now; it’s making him cold, but he still sways anyway. There is no music accompanying him, only a longing that aches to be over. Still, he danced and danced, throughout the decades, even when he could not remember his own name, even after he remembered who he was again. Now, he’s still dancing. He is sore right down to his bones, but he does not stop because he doesn’t know _how_ to.

That’s how it feels like to quietly love your best friend for as long as you can remember.

 

***

 

The first thing that rushed into Bucky’s mind when he first felt the warm air of Wakanda was _thank fucking god._

He loves the hut, which now almost feels like his own as he spends night after night in it. In the mornings, the sunlight leaks through the curtain covering the entrance, illuminating the interior of the small shack with streaks of gold and yellow. A mattress lies on top of a pallet, far from fancy but definitely sturdy and comfortable enough to handle his weight and the occasional tossing and turning when his dreams aren’t being so kind to him. He personally picked up a few patterned pillows and throws from a small furniture shop in the city in attempt to make it look homey. He finds the colors blue and orange comforting. He avoids the red pillows.

He enjoys admiring the vast green pasture that extends itself right outside the hut, and the goats that wander around it. The grass disappears where the lake begins: a calm body of water, so clean, still and quiet, that it is hard to know where the lake finally meets the sky at night. There is a small dock not so far away, and he has spent so much time sitting there, thumbing and writing on his new journal. The kids from the village would come to him and try to annoy him, but it just feels great to be seen as a weary old man, not as the ticking time bomb that he used to be. He would chase them in return, and they would run away, screams and laughters filling up the air.

During sunsets, the sky bursts into a plethora of colors, as if God or some cosmic artist decided to explode a few buckets full of paint and color the sky in blues, purples, yellows, and oranges. Sometimes he wishes that he has the ability to draw and capture the beauty of it with his own hand, but he is not his best friend, so he just spends more time outside the hut instead, marveling at the sunset that is so distinctly Wakanda. When it’s dark, the stars don’t hide like they would in brighter cities. They seem closer, and if he extends his hand to the sky just a bit further, he thinks he probably could touch one. When he decides that it’s time to close the day, he retreats back to his hut and lights up all his scented candles (even though the hut is already equipped with electric lighting, thank you very much.)

Although it is a part of the big Border Tribe, the village where he resides only accommodates about five families. It’s a half hour car ride away from where the Royal Family dwells, and it is quiet on most days, save for the children and goats who seem to grow so fond of him. It’s the polar opposite of his hometown of Brooklyn.

Bucky misses Brooklyn, alright. But he loves the fact that it will always be warm in Wakanda, and there will never be winter waiting to roll in.

And besides, he doubts that Brooklyn will ever feel like home again.

 

***

 

It’s not like Bucky doesn’t expect Steve to come—he does, but he figures that it wouldn’t be so sudden. When he was thawed from the cryo in late 2016, still disoriented and unsure what was reality and what was a dream, King T’Challa sent Steve a text message: _Your friend is awake, on the path of recovery. He is doing well. My sister and I will take good care of him._

A reply from Steve came about a day later, short, concise, and encrypted: _I will drop by once I am done with my ongoing business. I cannot thank you and Shuri enough._

Bucky considered contacting Steve himself by borrowing Shuri’s high-tech smartphone, but something deep in him told him to hold it and wait. He asked T’Challa about Steve’s recent “business” and the King told him, “He is somewhere in East Asia. I cannot really say where, but he is accompanied by Romanoff and Wilson.”

That’s good, Bucky thought. Steve has always been as stubborn as a mule, both in and outside the battlefield. Having two of his friends on his side maybe could water down his recklessness. Bucky hoped, and still hopes, that Natasha and Sam could do that.

So four months later, when one of the Dora Milaje dropped by his hut to tell him that Steve has an impromptu meeting with the King, _has_ actually arrived and is on the way to the village, it comes to Bucky as a surprise. He quickly regain his composure, sits at the dock, gazes at the sunset, and waits. He ignores the knots in his chest, ignores the way his heartbeat speeds up as each second passes. This waiting game wakes up something in him that he thought he’d buried so deep that no one could ever dig it up. His previous meetings with Steve, in Bucharest and all the way to the cryo room in Wakanda, were quite enough of a reunion, but they were too wrapped in the Avengers situation that a true and honest one couldn’t be achieved by any of them. He hopes for tonight to be different.

He hears a soft noise in the distance; a car door being slammed, then footsteps on the soft grass, approaching. If he holds a megaphone to his chest, the whole goddamn village could probably hear the very beat of his heart, accelerating, anticipating. _Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom_. He knows those footsteps, would recognize them anywhere, would be able to tell who they belong to in any timeline, in any reality. When the sound of the rustling grasses change to solid wood, Bucky knows he only has to turn around.

“Hey, Buck,” the voice says, and that voice, that _fucking voice_ —

Fuck a village. If he holds a megaphone to his chest, the whole _country_ could hear his heart.

He turns around to see Steve Rogers, whose hands are hidden in the pockets of his jeans. Steve Rogers, with his now-golden brown hair gleaming in the sunset. Steve Rogers, with his civilian clothes, and a backpack slung on one shoulder. Steve Rogers, who now rocks a goddamn beard. Steve Rogers, with his lips slightly parted, clearly waiting for a greeting, for a reply. _Fuck, fuck._

“Hi,” Bucky’s voice comes out as a rasp. He clears his throat, and tries again. “Hey, Steve,” and god _damn_ , Steve’s eyes are searching into Bucky’s. He’s trying to read him and Bucky sure as hell is aware of it. Where is the Barnes from eight decades ago, who would have easily said a joke and break the ice between them? Suddenly, he says the only thing that makes sense to his brain in that very moment, because he’s been tricked so many times, too many lies, too much uncertainty, too many dreams and waking up—

“Are you real, Stevie?” Bucky whispers.

That earned a half-laugh and half-pained noise from Steve, tears clearly threatening to fall anytime soon. He scrambles and takes Bucky’s right hand, Bucky’s _only hand_ with his two hands and presses it against his face, holding it tightly. Bucky could feel the wetness on his cheek, coming from the younger man’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers back to him, and in an instant pulls Bucky close to his chest, finally embracing each other, holding on. Bucky swears he could hear the gears of the universe clicking into place. _This_ is where he is supposed to be.

Bucky snakes his right arm around Steve’s neck, and he holds them in place, staying like that for as long as the world will let them. He is not aware of time, or their surroundings, or anything else. The warmth of the sunset washes over them, and the megaphone on his chest no longer broadcasts the sound of his heartbeat. Instead, it simply sings, _home, home, home, home, home._

It might have lasted a minute, might have lasted an hour, or even a full day, but when they both pull back just enough so that they could see each other clearly, Bucky could see his own reflection in Steve’s glassy eyes. His hand is still on Steve’s neck, grounding him.

“Jesus,” Bucky laughs, “it’s been a while.” He thinks he might be going cold and warm at the same time, _nervousness never helps_ , but where they touch, it feels right. “How have you been, Rogers? Half a year without me and now you’re not a blond anymore?” Steve laughs in return.

“Well,” says Steve, and Bucky could feel the fingers on his back tighten. “I’m living the undercover life. The dye helps. And the beard.” He smiles, but it puts dread in Bucky’s heart.

“Steve—“

“No, Buck.” Steve replies, immediately knowing what Bucky was about to say: _I’m the one that caused you to live that life_. His voice is unwavering, insistent. “It’s my choice. You can’t make me choose otherwise.”

Steve is right. He is still the hard-headed kid Bucky knows from Brooklyn after all—unrelenting, forever steady. It still pains Bucky anyway, to realize the life Steve has to live now ever since the Avengers fell apart. But again, Steve is right. No one could change his mind. Not even Bucky himself. So instead of arguing even further, he drops the subject, and revels in the moment once more.

“Remember that night before I left for England?” Bucky asks him. Steve nods. “I told you I’d come back.”

“I remember,” Steve smiles sadly, and it fucking breaks Bucky’s heart to see him smile like that. It _hurts_ to watch him smile like that. Suddenly, the weight of the time they’ve lost feels heavier than ever, and it weighs a ton on Bucky’s chest. “Took you long enough, Barnes.”

“Well, here I am, Rogers,” Bucky says, and isn’t it a beautiful truth, he thinks, that he is here, _they are there_ , despite all the odds stacked against them, despite the number of times the universe tries to pluck them both off the face of the Earth, despite the changes they went through— “Here I am anyway.”

 

***

 

The funny thing about reunions is how easy and fast the magic dissipates once the people involved decide to leave the moment. The warmth in the atmosphere is replaced with rather a bland one, if not cold. They quickly fall into their old ways and notice the easiness they used to have ever since they were eight years old. Bucky knows that nothing is really the same, though. They are far from home, and they are far from the kids that they used to be.

He takes off his sandals just as he enters the hut, and decides to settle down on the teal couch opposite from the bed. He watches Steve tread through the room, checking out every feature Bucky’s small place has to offer. Steve’s finger lingers near the pocket-knife laying on the bedside table.

“So, how long are you staying for?” Bucky asks. He realizes that he doesn’t even know how long his friend is going to stay for, and the answer scares him. He knows that Steve is quite the busy man nowadays, being a nomad and a wanderer and still a soldier all at once, but he silently hopes that Steve is planning to stay for a while. The man clearly needs a goddamn break.

“I’m leaving on Saturday,” Steve replies. Bucky hears the exhaustion in his voice, plain and clear. “I’m going to regroup with Natasha and Sam in Istanbul then. Still have a lot of work to do, but we gotta take this break. It’s long overdue.”

Bucky lets it sink in. _Four days_. It is currently Wednesday night, and if Steve is leaving in the morning on Saturday, that means they will only have two whole days together. It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough at all.

But he is used to taking whatever he could get: in the 30s, when he could only stare at Steve, still thin and frail then, as he let his fingers be covered in charcoal in the name of art. During war, when all he had were the small moments they’d shared in their tent (and even then, Steve was already drifting away for someone else other than Bucky himself.) Then, when his very identity was taken away, he remembers seeing glimpses of a boy, glimpses of a man—one small, one big, but the same man nonetheless. He remembers holding on to those glimpses and fragmented snapshots with all his life.

He’s used to that, alright. So he gathers himself and smiles at Steve from where he sits.

“That’s real good, Steve. Get some rest, you desperately need it,” he says, and then it registers in his brain. “Which leads to the question: _where_ are you going to sleep?”

“Uh, Shuri says she already has a room at an apartment somewhere in the city, but if you don’t mind, I could stay here—“

“Of course,” Bucky replies, perhaps way too quickly. He sinks further into the soft couch and waves it off. _Act casual._ “I won’t mind at all, but my bed isn’t that big. You can sleep in the couch or we could share the bed,” He smirks, wishing that Steve would pick the latter.

“I’ll take the couch,” Steve answers and drops his backpack on the ground. Bucky decides it would be enough.

 

***

 

In the morning, Steve wakes up early to go to the palace to discuss some “issues” with T’Challa. Bucky doesn’t ask what it is about. Instead, he cooks Steve a hearty American breakfast from the groceries he got from the city two days ago. He packs it into a wooden food container, and hands it to Steve before he leaves.

“Gotta eat, you big lug.”

Steve grins widely, taking the container from Bucky’s hand. Bucky watches as one of the Dora Milaje drives them away from him, into the city where all the hustle and bustle are.

To be honest, Bucky, having a good pair of ears, has heard some of the things from the villagers that Steve and T’Challa might be talking about. He usually helps the villagers with communal luncheons and farming daily, except the days where he is required to go to Shuri’s lab to do a check-up. Sometimes, he would hear words from the elders, speaking in hushed Xhosa. He is not fluent at it—not yet, at least—but Shuri’s short lessons were enough to make him understand a few sentences the elders have exchanged: _could you feel the forces of the Universe combining?_

Bucky doesn’t question it, at first. But spending more time in Wakanda made him more spiritual, and weirdly, more in-sync with the nature around him. At night, he would hear wolves howling at the moon, as if they are trying to warn him of something the world doesn’t even understand yet. He could hear the trees rustling in the background, trying to communicate with him, somehow, but couldn’t. Something is coming, he understands. He just hopes it won’t come soon. God, he is definitely in no shape to fight anytime soon.

Steve finally comes back from his meeting with T’Challa in the afternoon, and after Bucky finishes running his errands in the village, they both take a little hike on the hills not far from the village, close to the border where the force-fields are. They stay in a comfortable silence, quietly trekking side by side. When they reach the top of the hill, they settle down on the green grass and bask in the sunlight. Bucky dares himself to look at Steve, and when he does, all the air in his lungs are gone. He could truly see the weariness etched on every line on the younger man’s face, and notice how his hair no longer catches light like it used to be when it was still blond. The beard hides almost half of his face, the art of being incognito—but Bucky will still recognize that face anywhere, beard or no beard, blond or golden brown.

“Do you go up here all the time?” Steve asks, clearly still marveling at the landscape in front of them.

“Nah,” Bucky answers. “Just sometimes. Watch the sunset, all that cliché,” he chuckles. It does sound like a cliché, but no one can ever get enough of Wakanda’s skyline. “Just like to look at it, that’s all.”

“It’s almost like looking at Manhattan from Brooklyn,” Steve muses. “The skyscrapers, all the noise are concentrated right—” he points a finger to the center of the city “—there,” he continues. “I was in New York a couple of months ago. You won’t believe it, Buck. So much has changed.”

Bucky _does_ believe it, though. Everything has changed. He remembers a night, when he was still the Soldier, where he laid on his stomach on a rooftop, waiting for a target. He remembers the weird feeling in his gut then, telling him that he should know the city in his bones. “Did you visit Brooklyn?” He asks.

“I did,” Steve’s face does that thing again; that thing when he’s deep in his thoughts. “My apartment, the one that I got after I woke up, is gone. Sold to an old couple. All my stuff is, I guess, in custody, or sent to the compound Upstate,” he sighs. “I walked around and I know it’s Brooklyn. It’s just…different. It doesn’t feel right. Not without you, anyway.”

_Not without you, anyway._

Bucky tears his gaze away from the skyline to meet Steve’s eyes. He’s looking right back at Bucky, and it’s like Bucky is staring into the sun, but _fuck,_ he can’t look away. He could feel the air between them shift—a switch flipped, maybe—and he knows if he closes that space between them, it would be easy. God, it would be so fucking easy, and maybe he could finally stop that slow dance he desperately wants to end. So what? The Wakandans sense that something is looming over the universe, something dangerous, and the world might end soon. Might as well throw caution to the wind, right?

But he dismisses it with a laugh, even though he hates himself for it. It’s for the best, he thinks. _It should be for the best._

“No shit, Rogers,” He laughs, rock in his throat, but he swallows it anyway. “ _I’m_ Brooklyn. It’s dead without me, I bet.”

Steve leans away and smiles at him. “Yeah, it is, Buck.”

 

***

 

Precisely at three in the morning, Bucky wakes up from his deep slumber to a soft noise coming from outside his hut. The village is already quiet enough during day, and there’s no doubt that it’s even quieter at night, save for the crickets. It’s unusual that the noise is still there—distant, subtle, _like someone’s feet dangling in the waters?_ He looks over to the couch, and when Steve is nowhere to be found, he lights up a lantern and heads outside.

The lantern is quite small, but it is enough to illuminate his surroundings. When he walks further away to the lake, he sees a lonely figure sitting by the dock, feet dipped in the lake.

“Steve,” he calls out and walks towards the dock. He stops just behind the man, and holds up the lantern to throw light on the both of them. “What’s keeping you up?”

“Nothin’, Buck,” Steve utters. _Liar_ , Bucky thinks. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry if I did, you should head back—”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, you’re good,” he replies softly. He’s about to ask Steve to come back to his hut, but the small voice inside his head tells him not to, so he joins Steve and sits close beside him. He even takes off his sandals and dips his feet in the lake, too. It feels familiar, and if he closes his eyes, he could imagine being back in their shoebox apartment, Steve brooding silently on the corner of their couch, obviously bothered by something but refusing to utter a single word about it. It used to drive Bucky crazy, how closed and reserved Steve became when he was upset, but Bucky is older now and he knows better. “What did you dream about?”

Steve turns his face to look at Bucky for a second, but goes back to quietly gaze at the lake in the next. “It’s alright.”

Bucky could definitely hear the rough edge on his voice, pain in hiding. He scoots closer to Steve, letting the armless side of his body touch Steve’s. Even though he’s fully clothed, he could feel the warmth radiating off Steve. “You can tell me.”

He listens to the gentle ripple of the water around their feet, let the silence linger. He is no stranger to that silence.

“D.C.,” Steve finally speaks up. He still won’t look at Bucky, and God—D.C. feels so long ago. “Only I never took off your mask, and only after I, after I.”

Steve stops, and Bucky impulsively puts his right hand on top of Steve’s, to make sure that Steve knows that he’s there and he’s not leaving.

“Only after I _killed_ you, I found out that it’s you all along. I tried to do _something_ , carry you, maybe, try to bring you back, but you turned into fucking ash,” he turns his gaze to Bucky at last, and Bucky could clearly see the tears Steve’s holding at bay, “I couldn’t do anything, Buc _ky_ ,” Steve’s voice breaks at the last syllable of his name, breaking Bucky’s heart all at the same time. “You turned into ashes.”

Bucky takes his feet out of the water so he could fully face Steve, and grabs the hand he’s been holding and guides it to his face, lets Steve feel him, hopes that maybe he’s warm enough to reassure Steve that he’s far from being dead. He could feel Steve’s thumb moving from his cheek to rest on his lips, and in response, he parts them slightly and breathes out through his mouth instead. Steve gasps at the contact, in pain and in relief, and Bucky lets him feel his breath, silently telling him that he is there and he’s _alive_.

The both of them have never been good with words, never been good at emptying their minds and spilling all the thoughts for the other to see, but their physical language has always been enough. _That_ is what they are good at.

The two of them stay in the dark for a while, close and still touching, until Steve pulls his hand away and heaves a heavy sigh. Bucky aches at the lack of physical contact, but he takes it as a signal to pull Steve back on his feet, into the hut and his bed. Steve wordlessly slips into the blanket next to Bucky, and Bucky lets him.

As they drift into the dark, Bucky’s hand is buried in the strands of Steve’s hair, and Steve’s ear is pressed close to Bucky’s chest where his heart is beating a slow, quiet disco.

 

***

 

Bucky wakes up again later in the day, perhaps a little bit later than he expected. He glares at the holographic clock on his nightstand. It shows a three-dimensional tree with a big-eyed cartoon miniature of him sitting on the ground, and a big text above the tree:

 _Rise and shine!_  
_Friday_  
_March 10th, 2017  
_ _10:48 AM_  

He stares at the holographic clock for a long time, wondering what prompted Shuri’s clock app to show the special display today. When his brain came up with nothing, he turns and frowns at the lack of a certain someone in the room. He shrugs off the thought and gets up to find a folded piece of paper on the couch, right beside Steve’s backpack. He takes the paper and unfolds it, revealing the familiar handwriting inked onto the surface.

 

> _I’m off to the city to discuss matters with T’Challa again._  
>  _I’ll be back at sundown.  
>  _ _—Steve_

He frowns even harder at the letter. Clearly, he’s missing something, _something_ that he should really know but he hasn’t noticed yet. He walks back towards his nightstand, waves his hand at the holographic image floating above the clock to reveal a hidden message relayed from Shuri: _Happy 100th Birthday!_

_Right._

At first glance, it might have been weird for someone to forget his own birthday, but maybe in Bucky’s case, it isn’t so strange. He had his brain jumbled and fried and messed with for decades—forgetting the specific date of his birthday should be a reasonable excuse. He may be 100 years old, but he couldn’t even figure out his biological age anymore, although he figures that he is probably in his mid-thirties.

He imagines what life would be like if he made it out of war alive and whole. He’d go back to Brooklyn, marry some woman, be a father of two, and work as an accountant. He could do that. He always had A’s in the classes he took before he had to drop out from high school to start working. But even now, as a 100-year-old man, he could only kid himself if he says that he’d settle down in a brownstone and showcase the perfect 1950s American nuclear family.

For so long, he’d believed that he was born to fight. His fingers were sculpted to pull triggers and his vision is still as sharp as ever because they were trained to look carefully into a scope. The war didn’t make him; it just brought out something in him that was always there all along.

And maybe it’ll always be there, that part of him that pushes him to fight. It will always lurk beneath his plane of consciousness like a reflex memory that is no longer used. Until then, he’ll happily look after the goats and cows, tend the farms, and go to sleep by ten at the latest every night.

 

***

 

By six, he strips himself from his regular shuka cloth that reeks of goat crap and dresses up nicely. He wears a pair of modern black pants, and a crisp, white button-down with thin geometrical embroidery near the collar that shows off his right arm and the stump on his left shoulder. He sighs at the sight, but quickly covers it with the bright teal scarf that Shuri gave to him as a gift when he first woke up. He combs his hair and takes a final look at his outfit in the mirror.

Here he is, a man far from home, a hundred years old, tanned from the Wakandan sun, who still dons the same smile that he had a lifetime ago.

_Not so bad, Barnes._

 

***

 

Steve, as he promised, comes back to the hut by sundown carrying two paper bags, one large one and one small one, which Bucky guesses are from the merchants in the city. Judging from the size of one of the bags and the decorations, it must be a cake. Bucky watches Steve from the couch as he carefully settles the bags on top of the drawer. Definitely a cake, then.

He turns around to face Bucky, and Bucky stands up without conscious volition, gravitating towards the man in front of him. Steve smiles like Bucky has never seen him ever since all the chaos, and Bucky commits it to memory. Then Steve steps into his space and pulls Bucky into his arms, sure and steady.

“Happy birthday, Buck,” he says. “You’re goddamn old, huh?”

Bucky breathes in the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt, laughs with him.

“I’m not the only one,” Bucky replies. “Look at yourself, too.”

“Well,” Steve pulls back. The look in his eyes is bittersweet. “At least I’m not alone.”

They settle on the floor of the hut and take the cake out of the box. The cake is quite simple-looking; the surface is glossed with dark blue icing, with chocolate shavings on top. _Happy Birthday Bucky!_ is written in a very attractive glittery gold that Bucky thinks shouldn’t be edible, but Steve says that everything is safe to eat. Steve retrieves a small, thin candle from the bottom of the box, sticks it in the center of the cake, and pulls out a lighter from the pocket of his jeans. Bucky stares at the now-lit candle, as Steve draws a breath and starts singing happy birthday.

Steve is far from being a singer, but he doesn’t sing it off-tune and his voice is unwavering as he harmonizes to every word. Steve’s eyes are even bluer in front of the single flame. Bucky just watches him and can’t bring himself to look away.

When Steve finishes singing, he places his hand on top of Bucky’s, and whispers to him, “Make a wish, Buck.”

His eyes follow the flickering small flame in front of him once more before he closes them shut.

He supposes he’d like to not have to fight anymore, to be able to settle down somewhere and be able to call it home. He wishes to make peace with his past, because no matter how clean his brain is from those trigger words, he is still far from the redemption he wants to fulfill.

More than anything, he wishes to end that slow dance, and finally love Steve the way he always wanted to. He wants to stop loving him in silence and start loving him out loud. He wants to climb on the hills near his hut and shout it from the top of his lungs. He wants to broadcast it to the world and call Steve his. To be able to whisper it in the middle of the night like it’s still a secret.

A perfect heaven for him is an endless summer afternoon with Steve by his side.

He opens his eyes and blows out the fire.

They spend the rest of the night finishing the tart-yet-sweet cake, drinking Wakandan-made bourbon, and unwrapping the gifts Steve and the others had gotten for him. Bucky smiles when he finds out Natasha’s gift for him: a sleek, silver stiletto bun holder, but with an edge sharp enough to be a hidden weapon. She doesn’t include any card; Bucky assumes that the gift is already enough words from the woman.

Sam, unsurprisingly, gives him a waterproof red tote-bag with falcons printed all over the fabric. The letter is short and concise: _To help you carry all your shit. Or, you know, real goat shit because you love goats so much now._

Bucky reaches into the small paper bag and finds a small velvet box. When he pulls it out to inspect it, his heart skips a beat. It looks like a box for a jewelry. The annoying part of his brain, the one that’s too goddamn hopeful, thinks it could be a ring. He shakes the thought off.

He uses the force of his thumb to flip the small case open and reveals a pair of bracelets inside. Then he realizes that those aren’t just regular bracelets; they are made out of polished onyx stones with one larger kimoyo bead in the middle of each bracelet. Bucky has seen it on Shuri’s lab desk, has seen T’Challa and members of the palace use it. It’s another form of smartphones that’s far more advanced and ergonomic, invented by no other than Shuri herself. She has offered one to Bucky, but he refused, because he likes being away from the rest of the world, where all the chaos and storms occur.

“I commissioned Shuri to make a pair for us,” Steve tells him. “She told me that you don't like to be too connected to the world outside, so she only connected your bead to mine. But basically, it allows us to contact each other securely. Only if you want it, of course,” he adds. “Also, she added a music app in there. She told me how much you like to listen to music nowadays. The beads actually serve as a good speaker.”

Bucky takes a closer look at one of the bracelets and feels the smooth surface with the pad of his thumb. All the small stones are a sleek, black shade, with the exception of one bead, which is royal blue. His thumb lingers on the blue bead, studying the clever design.

“Blue?” he asks.

“Yeah. It was Shuri’s idea to make one bead different, but I chose the color,” Steve says. “She also paired our bracelets together. So, if you touch the blue bead on yours with your thumb, mine will light up. And vice versa.” He picks up the other bracelet that is left on the small box and slides his left hand into it. The bracelet is snug on his wrist, and when he lightly touches the lone blue bead, the one in Bucky’s glows a soft blue hue.

Although it is a subtle gesture, a simple touch to the gadget, it is something quite profound. They could be separated by a vast distance, be in two different time zones, but all it requires is the glow of a small stone to let them feel closer. It could be a quiet reminder: _I’m thinking about you_.

"Thank you, Steve. Really," Bucky says and laughs, because only Steve would ever think of commissioning the best scientist in the whole world for a pair of bracelets. He wants to kiss Steve for it, but he won’t.

He stares at the gifts in front of him: a bun holder, a tote bag, and a bracelet. Sam and Natasha had no reason to give him a gift, but they still did so anyway. Suddenly he wants to cry, because he never dreamt about it, never had a reason to think that he would have a life beyond his small apartment in Romania. But here he is, sitting across from Steve, receiving gifts from people that have his back.

He takes Natasha and Sam’s gifts and stores them in his drawer, while he slips the bracelet on his right wrist. Under the dim lights of his hut, the blue bead is almost indiscernible from the blacks.

After finishing two whole bottles of bourbon, the both of them are far from being drunk, but Bucky’s knock-off version of the serum helps him get to the point of being pleasantly tipsy. His mind wanders more, and his thoughts definitely start to get louder and volatile, but Steve, even though he appears calm and composed, still has that tightness in his posture, like he’s bracing for a fight at any moment.

“Loosen up, Rogers,” Bucky protests and nudges him on the shoulder. Steve smiles sheepishly, but he is still tense, even only slightly.

“Takes me back, you know,” Steve starts, “you chugging whatever drink you copped for the night, especially when it’s one of our birthdays. Me hacking up a lung and getting drunk within the first sip.”

“Well, don’t you wish you could go back. Get drunk, dance the night away, wake up with the worst hangover.”

“I think you’re mistaking yourself with me, Buck,” Steve laughs, carefree for the first time, and Bucky is suddenly hit with a wave of memories: the dance halls in Brooklyn, the bodies that swayed throughout those rooms, the laughters and the music—

He realizes that his feet ache to move, to dance. It’s bizarre because for a long time after he was thawed out, he never missed it. He rarely had flashbacks to his past before the war because he did not have any reason to look back. Looking back made him feel the empty stretch within his mind, a giant void longing to be fulfilled but can never be. So he stopped reminiscing, and lived in the presence.

Looking at Steve, however, takes him back. It’s such a natural response to looking at the only living breathing person from your past that is long lost and forgotten. There Steve is, on the floor of his hut, _his hut—_ smiling at Bucky, an empty bottle of drink in his hand. He is far from the kid he used to be in the 1930s, but he still sounds the same and feels the same and the fire in his eyes never changes. It’s truly jarring. Bucky feels like his brain is split in two, and his eyes are forced to look at two different things altogether.

He finds himself shifting forward, his left knee touching Steve’s. He’s _definitely_ tipsy.

“I don’t suppose you have any more gifts for me, hm, Stevie?”

Steve pouts. “Well, I thought my presence is enough, Buck.”

_It is. God, it is._

“Do better,” Bucky challenges him. A strange look passes on Steve’s face, but in one swift motion, he stands up and offers his hand to Bucky. When Bucky just looks up at him weirdly, Steve grins.

“Well, it was kinda your thing back then to go drink and dance during your birthday night. I ain’t no dame, but… I can still be a good dance partner.”

Bucky tries to hide the plain surprise etched on his face, but he’s willing to bet a hundred bucks that he’s failing, _miserably_.

“Steve, look, bud. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it but I only have _one_ arm. I need one more to lead,” Bucky replies. Steve surely couldn’t lead—he has two left feet, for God’s sake.

“Good thing I can, then.”

Bucky bursts out laughing. His brain may be fried more than a hundred times, but he is very certain that his best friend can’t lead a slow dance. He’s still laughing, but when he notices that Steve’s expression is truly serious —  _holy shit_ — he quiets. “Wait, you’re not joking.”

“Natasha taught me,” Steve confesses. “We were all bored out of our minds at a hostel in Bangkok.”

Now that it truly registers in Bucky’s mind that he is going to dance with Steve—Steve fucking Rogers—he doesn’t know what to say, or how to react. The man he’s loved for so long is right in front of him, offering him a chance to dance with him on the night of his birthday. He couldn’t even count how many nights he’d spent dreaming about it, but here he is anyway: out of time but unquestionably still alive, with that opportunity finally falling into his hands.

He must have been so lost in his own thoughts, because Steve withdraws his hand and sighs, “I mean, if you’re not up to it, that’s fine—“

Bucky gets on his feet so fast, cutting Steve off mid-sentence and takes his hands. He won’t let go of that chance, now that it’s only an arm’s reach rather than a dream away.

“No, Stevie. I’d love to,” God, it’s truly happening, isn’t it— “Just help a guy out here, yeah? Lead the way for me?”

“Of course, Bucky.”

As Steve guides him to the empty space between the couch and the bed, Bucky couldn’t help but to gape at the fact that all of this is happening on his hundredth birthday, out of all days. Hell. Maybe he isn’t so unlucky after all.

Steve kicks the used gift-wrappers to the corner of the room, clearing out the space so they’d have an ample room to dance in. He takes off his bomber jacket, throws it to the couch, and takes Bucky’s only hand in his. Bucky’s heart speeds up. Steve settles Bucky’s hand on the back of his neck, gentle and careful. He fumbles with the kimoyo bracelet on his wrist, then finally, a song starts to play.

Bucky feels Steve’s hands on his waist, holding him in place but not pulling him closer. The guitar strums start to fill the room, guiding them both as they begin to sway to the slow beat. His feet feel unfamiliar, he hasn’t danced in such a long time, and he knows that Steve must feel the same way. He concentrates on the small space between their bodies, not daring to look directly into Steve’s eyes. His hand starts to shake as Steve draws a breath and finally pulls him close, their chests touching, only separated by the thin fabric of their clothes.

“Why are you shaking?” Steve asks, his voice low. Bucky could feel the whiff of breath on his face. They are so, _so_ close. “It’s just me. It’s not like I’m the ‘it’ girl from a bar or something.”

Bucky chuckles, because it’s ridiculous how Steve doesn’t _know_ . Doesn’t know that for Bucky, he _is_ the ‘it’ girl from a bar, and has been that way for a long time.

“It’s fine, Steve, I just. Haven’t done this in a while.”

When he finally gathers the courage to look at Steve in the eyes, the man in the song starts to sing, tender and easy. The dim warm lights in the room cast a shadow on Steve’s face, but his irises catch the glimmer of light from the candles Bucky lit up, and they are glowing to the point where Bucky wonders if the man he’s dancing with is just a fragment of his wildest imaginations.

Their feet are warmed up now, as they feel the tension in each other’s limbs start to melt away, and the true thrill of a slow dance starts to come through. Bucky’s chest tightens all at once, because this is what he has been waiting for, this is what he has been missing out on; to speak in steps and sways instead of words. It is infinitely better, because he doesn’t speak it with a stranger at some dancehall in Brooklyn; he is speaking it with _Steve_.

 

 _Send your dreams_  
_Where nobody hides_  
_Give your tears  
_ _To the tide..._

 

His words may fail to escape his tongue; they are mere thoughts that will always be unspoken, but his bones, limbs, and muscles—all three at once, try their best to reach out, to call out the name of the man in his arm. And it is no surprise that they move in such synchronization that could only be identified as _Steve and Bucky_ , because they’ve known each other for so long, have learned the way the other moves in schoolyards and battlefields. On the makeshift dance floor, they were only acquaintances for half a minute before they eventually fall into place; knowing, understanding.

“You’re not so bad anymore,” Bucky retorts. “And here I thought you had two left feet.”

“I guess some things do change,” Steve replies.

 

 _There’s no end_  
_There is no goodbye_  
_Disappear  
_ _With the night…_

 

With that, the song crescendos, the drums hit, and their steps follow suit. Bucky’s arm tightens around Steve’s neck, and he doesn’t stop himself from burying his nose in the soft cotton of Steve’s shirt. They are in 1942 and 2017 at the same time, they are younger and older, innocent and too far gone, but his heart beats the same beat anyway.

The song swells, and suddenly, the lyrics are sang with more urgency, a loud reminder for the both of them:

 

 _No time, no time  
_ _No time, no time._

 

When the music fades out and the echoes of silence start to flood through the room, they don’t stop swaying. They stay pressed, limbs tangled, moving occasionally even without a beat to drive them. Bucky realizes that _this_ is that moment he always dreads: when a slow dance is on the brink of its end, when it might turn stale anytime soon. He’s been through that moment a thousand times before, a lifetime ago, and after going through it so many times, he doesn’t mind it as much as he used to. However, the fact that it’s Steve makes him want to stay there forever. He wants to immortalize the moment, wants it frozen and intact. He is not ready to go back to whatever pretense he has been keeping up.

He lifts his head off Steve’s shoulder and finds Steve staring into him, pupils blown and dark. Steve’s hand finds its way to the side of Bucky’s face, and it stays there, hot and still.

“Steve?” he breathes out. It could be a question, but he doubts that it sounds like one. He could hear his heartbeat all the way from his rib cage to his brain. Steve’s face is so close to his that he can see the fine lines etched on his face. He is aging, Bucky realizes. Maybe quietly, slowly, but he is very much still the most beautiful man Bucky has ever laid his eyes on.

“Buck,” Steve utters his name, a quiet prayer, and suddenly it all makes sense.

All it takes is a small move so simple, a closing of the space in between them before their lips finally meet, and it finally sinks in his head that they are kissing. Their lips touch but they stay still and rigid, and Bucky almost pulls away, half-worried that he may have ruined one of the only good things left in his life, but then he feels the lips on his shift, and suddenly Steve is pulling him even closer and then they are pouring out all that they have in them, letting the other take whatever.

When they pull away to resurface and take a breath, Bucky touches Steve’s forehead with his. He has to make sure of everything—that’s a reflex he adopted ever since he became a soldier; shoot twice to make sure the enemy’s dead, check the lock to make sure it’s in place, scan the place one more time to make sure it’s not bugged, and now, he has to _ask._

“Tell me,” he begs, and even though he doesn’t fall on his knees, the shakiness in his voice is telling enough. “Tell me, Steve.”

“I love you,” and Steve is shaking, too, but it doesn’t matter, because they are together in this. “James Buchanan Barnes, I’m in love with you.”

And Bucky kisses him again, harder this time, more unrelenting and he doesn’t even try to hold back, not anymore. In that moment, he doesn’t end only one, but two slow dances.

Their hands search for one another, grasping and grabbing, unable to get enough. Every time Bucky pulls away just slightly, Steve chases his mouth again, and each time that happens, his heart bursts and rains in reds and blues. Every emotion he could think of turns into a technicolor dream; so vibrant, so loud, so colorful. He went through two lifetimes of wanting Steve, and never in his dreams he imagines that it would happen this way; their breaths still tinged by alcohol that doesn’t even work on them, on his 100th birthday, in a country that a few months ago didn’t even let its existence be known by outsiders.

It doesn’t take long for them to fall into bed, and Bucky silently prays that it can take the impact of two excited super soldiers. Bucky, underneath Steve, tries his best to undress Steve with his only hand, but curses when it doesn’t work. Steve, god bless him, seems to read the cue because he takes his shirt off and throws it on the floor. They don’t get back immediately to kissing, though. Bucky traces the bare body hovering above him with his index, and Steve just stares at him, mouth parted.

“Now you tell me,” Steve whispers. Bucky’s fingers make their way to his collarbone, still tracing, still exploring. “Say it to me.”

“I love you,” Bucky confesses, and it’s funny to him how simple those three words are, how they could be easily said, but it took him a lifetime to utter them out loud. “Haven’t stopped since 1935.”

Steve lowers himself on Bucky again, fast, and the impact knocks the air out of Bucky’s lungs, yet he can’t bring himself to care. Steve unknots the scarf around his shoulders, slowly unbuttons his shirt, and it drives Bucky mad each time Steve’s calloused fingers brush the skin of his chest. When his shirt is off at last, he pulls Steve into him again, feeling warm all over. Steve’s lips work on the edge of Bucky’s mouth, to his jaw, to his neck, nibbling and sucking, and Bucky gasps, tries to keep quiet. Steve doesn’t miss the spot where his skin meets metal; the angry jagged scars around it. He presses his lips to that spot, and Bucky wonders who taught Steve this, to be able to pull a man apart and put the pieces back together like it’s no big deal, like it’s his favorite pastime.

Steve’s lips are still roaming across Bucky’s chest, and if Bucky thinks he could control himself to only gasps, he is wrong. Steve licks at his nipple and he moans, unable to keep it in. Steve travels further down, until he reaches the dark trail just below Bucky’s navel, stopping before he reaches Bucky’s waistband. Bucky wants to protest, but Steve’s hands find the button of Bucky’s pants.

“Buck, can I?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve, _of course_ ,” the desperation in his voice is so transparent. His fingers rake through Steve’s longish hair: an encouragement. “I’m all yours. I’m all yours.”

Steve works on the zipper then, and Bucky aches all over as Steve pulls his pants and underwear off at the same time. The younger man doesn’t hesitate, and Bucky is so damn close to crying when he feels Steve’s tongue on him for the first time, working him slowly, bringing him closer to the edge. Steve looks so fucking beautiful, Bucky thinks. His shoulders are taut and his cheeks are hollowed in the faint yellow light; the perfect obscene noir painting.

When Bucky’s breaths turn more ragged and fast, he pulls at Steve’s hair, stopping him.

“Come back up, I wanna kiss you,” he says. “And take your pants off.”

Steve indulges him, shimmies away his jeans and drops them to the floor to join the rest of their clothing. He is quick to lean into Bucky again, lips pressing hungrily, their lengths trapped between them. Bucky digs his nails into Steve’s back, feels the beads of sweat forming.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, you know that?” Bucky murmurs, because Steve has to know. “All those fucking years, and I still fucking want you. I just don’t know how to stop.”

Steve lifts Bucky’s legs up and lets them encircle him, Bucky’s toes locking him behind his back. With each rut, Steve’s gasps become moans that get louder and louder.

“Bucky,” he exhales into Bucky’s ear, his breath warm and wet against Bucky’s skin. “Don’t stop.”

Bucky may only have one arm, but he’s still strong enough to flip the both of them until Steve is the one panting beneath him, hair fanned out on the pillow, lips so red and thoroughly kissed. It only makes Bucky want to kiss him again.

Steve slips his free hand in between them and Bucky lets out a noise that he doesn’t even know he has in him. They come apart under each other’s hands, until all they are are sobs and tangled limbs, until the room is filled with nothing but echoes of their names.

 

***

 

Bucky wakes up to a couple hundred pounds of pure muscle smothering him. He almost instinctively grabs the pocket knife on the small table next to him without even opening his eyes before the muscle mass mumbles sleepily.

Bucky slowly opens his eyes to find Steve resting on his chest, his expression slack and peaceful. Steve is goddamn heavy but Bucky doesn’t want to disturb him, not when he looks so calm in his sleep. It’s only two nights ago that he found Steve on the dock, shaking from a nightmare, so he lets Steve drift in his slumber for longer, basking in the warmth of their bodies and the sunny morning. Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s soft golden brown locks, still in a state of disbelief that last night did happen and he’s no longer silently pining over his best friend.

A few minutes later, Steve shifts again and finally opens his eyes.

“Morning,” Bucky greets him.

“Mornin’.”

They know that there’s an elephant in the room that they have to address soon, but Bucky hopes that if he stays silent for as long as he can, they won’t have to talk about it.

His wish didn’t come true, though, because Steve finally speaks again.

“I’m leaving today.”

“I know,” Bucky replies. He wants to ask, but he’s afraid. He knows Steve too well. Steve may have dropped the shield and ripped the star off his chest, may not be Captain America anymore, but he is still Steve Rogers.

And it’s hell to love a fighter like him.

“Buck, you know I’ll come back, right?” Steve asks.

“I _know_ ,” Bucky sighs. “But Steve. It doesn’t hurt to take a break, _actually_ take a break. To settle down for a bit.”

Steve traces his thumb over the dimple of Bucky’s chin, and Bucky leans into the touch with no hesitation. His smile is sad.

“I can’t, Bucky,” he says. Once upon a time, Bucky told Steve that he’s got nothing to prove. Now that Steve has proven so much, has lost and fought so much, Bucky wants to tell him the same thing. Suddenly, Bucky wants to punch everyone who made Steve this way, who shaped him into a man that doesn’t know how to stop fighting. It’s clear on Steve’s face that he is much more worn out and tired, but there he is anyway: ninety-nine and twenty-seven and still a warrior.

“You know, there’s only so much luck a person could have. One way or another, it’s gonna run out,” Bucky tells him, even though he very much already knows the answer. And that scares him to death, the fact that Steve will be out there putting his life on the line again, that any of their meetings could be their last. Steve moves up again and kisses Bucky square on the lips, quick but full of emotion.

“Buck, I know I can’t ask you to come with me, because you deserve this life, this… quietness. God knows how much you deserve it. So I’m telling you. I will come back, I will _always_ come back for you,” Steve’s thumb moves to Bucky’s lips, then, and Bucky kisses it, unable to keep still. Steve’s voice sounds more urgent, then, a desperate promise: “Once this is all over, we’ll get off T’Challa’s back and move somewhere, maybe near a beach. Maybe Phuket or Bali. Have you seen Bali? It’s so beautiful, Buck. It’s summer everyday there. You’ll love it.”

“Okay, sweetheart, okay,” Bucky laughs, and it’s a sad sound. He grabs Steve’s hand in his own and kisses each finger. Maybe it will come true, maybe it won’t. Maybe they are cursed with the distance forever, but the way Steve’s eyes light up as he mentions all the beautiful beaches in the world he could think of makes Bucky couldn’t care less. “Bali it is.”

 

***

 

Bucky watches from the bed as Steve puts on his undercover costume: black leather jacket, white shirt, black pants, and black baseball cap. He loads a glock with the cartridge and slips it in the waistband of his jeans. The sight is bizarre to Bucky; for so long, Steve has always been wrapped in reds, whites, and blues, and now his wardrobe is so simple and monotone. Add the beard, and it’s even more of a strange sight.

They walk side by side in silence to the nearest subway station not far from the edge of the Border Tribe. When the train arrives, they hop on it and gaze outside the window to the rocky walls of the tunnel. Bucky catches Steve’s eyes in the faint reflection on the glass.

The train finally pulls into a halt after four stops, and the automated voice announces that they have reached the Royal District. They get off to find two members of the Dora Milaje waiting for them (or Steve, Bucky thinks.) They all ascended the stairway leading to the ground level to be met with T’Challa in his sleek, black convertible.

Steve is quick to exchange pleasantries with the King, telling him that he is very glad to be back in Wakanda, and will provide the Wakandan intelligence with more information regarding certain issues that Bucky doesn’t even want to know about. They shake hands and share a quick hug. When they part and Steve walks towards the runway leading to the quinjet, Bucky nods at T’Challa and greets him hello in Xhosa. T’Challa replies with a warm smile.

Bucky catches up with Steve, who is already stepping on the ramp of the jet. He looks at where the ground meets the ramp: a cruel reminder of their inevitable separation.

“So, where’s the next stop again?” Bucky asks.

“Istanbul,” Steve answers.

“Right.”

They stay quiet before Bucky steps onto the ramp and puts his arm around Steve’s neck, pulling him in, trying to ignore the fact that he won’t be seeing Steve again for a while. He feels Steve exhales as the younger man wraps both of his arms around Bucky, and Bucky tries not to shatter into a million pieces, because Steve is still there standing in his arms, but he already misses him.

“Stay safe,” Bucky tells him, pleading.

“I will, Buck.”

Bucky pulls back just slightly so that their foreheads touch. He feels their warm breaths mingle in the small space between them, and he is aware of the Dora Milaje and the King watching them from behind, but he ignores them. He brushes his lips against Steve’s, gentle and slow. Bucky catches Steve’s bottom lip with his teeth before pulling back.

“I love you,” Bucky says, and the words feel nice on his tongue.

“I love you, too,” Steve responds, voice heavy and low, and with that, he lets Bucky go and walks further into the jet. Bucky steps off from the platform and walks away, not bothering to look back as he hears the ramp fully closes and the engines start to hum. He passes T’Challa, who gives him a surprised but knowing look from his car.

He descends the same stairway leading to the subway platform, and when he looks down to see his bracelet, the lone blue bead glows brightly.

He touches the glowing bead in return and smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First, I wanna thank [bekahbookwyrm](http://bekahbookwyrm.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome beta, and also to [brooklyn-bvcky](http://brooklyn-bvcky.tumblr.com/) for helping me polish this fic as close to perfection. You guys are the absolute best.
> 
> Title is taken from St. Vincent's song _Slow Disco_. Some lines were also inspired by the lyrics in that song, especially the lyrics: " _Don't it beat a slow dance to death?_ " It's actually a really beautiful song that reminds me not only of stevebucky, but also just Bucky himself. 
> 
> I also made a few references to other songs as well. Bucky thinking that the "stars seem closer" is referring to Kendrick Lamar and SZA's _All the Stars_ , which is a part of the Black Panther soundtrack. The "megaphone to my chest" thing from Bucky's reunion with Steve is inspired by Lorde's amazing song called _The Louvre_ (again, listen to it if you haven't already, you won't regret it. Trust me.) The song they slow danced to is M83's _Wait_.
> 
>  
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave kudos and comments! They actually make me really happy. Maybe I'll even write about them having a long, long vacation in Bali.
> 
> You can visit my tumblr [here](http://stevebucks.tumblr.com/) and cry about stevebucky with me.


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